


It Gets Old Fast

by Kathar



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Coulson Lives, M/M, Married Couple, Pie, cameos by SHIELD and Stark, mild AoS pilot spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 02:22:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kathar/pseuds/Kathar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Clint was told Phil was alive, and one time he was told Phil was dead. A (slightly dark) comedy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Gets Old Fast

**Author's Note:**

> Mild spoilers for the Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. pilot, as gleaned from recaps. Spoilers pertain to Phil's backstory, not the plot itself, but I'd rather warn than not because it's more than I've seen in the tag to date.
> 
> I already had several current unpublished WIPS, before a completely new story jumped into my head and demanded to be written. This is not that story-- this story interrupted the previous interruption and wouldn't shut up until I wrote it down. It's been a whirlwind relationship and I don't regret it.
> 
> It’s also a product of way too much time spent poking in dark corners for Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D details. I vouch for the accuracy of none of them.

**5)**

"Hey, Locksley, listen up."

"You've really gotten down that far on the list already?" Clint Barton groused, collapsing backwards onto the couch and rubbing his eyes with the hand that wasn't pressing his cell to his ear.

"No, I'm saving the good ones for later. Where the hell have you been?" 

The funny thing was, he'd never really interacted with Tony Stark before-- except for That One Time. (The big one. The Battle of New York, for all of you just joining us.) And yet, he could have predicted that sentence word for word. He must have been paying more attention than he thought to Phil's grousing all these years.

"It's funny that you think there's going to be a 'later.' And I've been in quarantine, 'till they figured out if I'd really flushed Loki or not." 

He'd just been officially sprung fifteen minutes ago, in fact, after the last set of trucked-in specialists had signed off on their forms-- the ones that basically said _as far as I can tell he's fine_ and also, between the lines, _how the hell would we know if he's not_? The timing of Stark's call was, therefore, suspicious.

"Next time, tell a guy. Brucie and I would have come to get you. Whatever. They stamp their approval on your butt? Free pass to all the rides at Six Flags Over SHIELD?"  
"Yeah, and unlike you I make the minimum height. What do you want?"

Barely a minute into their first non-apocalyptic conversation, and already Clint could see their whole future unfurling before him in endless snark. It would be either terrifying or, well, _awesome_. No wonder Phil had never allowed him to come along on Stark-related business.

"Fury's up to something."

"And gravity still works. Did you need me for this conversation, or can I go to sleep? It's been a long day." 

A long month and a half, really, and that was the mother of all understatements. Enforced inactivity punctuated by invasive procedures, with nightmares (waking and otherwise) on the side. He'd endured, he was enduring, he was very good at enduring, and Phil would have expected no less of him. Then again, here Clint was, curled up on his office couch alone, and where was Phil? Precisely. 

Clint squirmed himself farther into the depths of the couch and buried his nose in the ratty old velour pillow that had been Phil's favorite. Even after all these weeks, it still smelled faintly of his hair gel, and Clint froze for a moment, his throat working but no oxygen exchanging. 

"You know, that's not exactly the kind of thing I'd want to be saying about someone I work for," Stark was saying.

"So stop consulting for him, Stark, what do you want?"

"Okay, consulting does not equal peonage. Does not even equal anything except me getting money from SHIELD to do shit I'd probably do anyway, because I'd gotten bored with green energy or bleeding-edge technology or the uncanny valley or just being me or the world needed saving. Again. So, JARVIS's last little data miner-- which you missed-- worked so well I thought I'd take version 2.0 out for a test drive. I had JARVIS use some standard search parameters. Things I already knew so I'd know how much I'd found about what I know, you know?"

"No."

"Har har. One of those search terms was Agent Phillip J. Coulson. Have I got your attention yet?"

He had. He knew he had, even if he couldn't (probably-- this was Tony Stark, so it was wise to qualify things like that) actually see through the phone. Clint was suddenly sitting bolt upright, and his heart was attempting to break its way out of his chest. 

"I'll try to stay awake for a bit," he drawled, hoping he didn't sound like his mouth was dry as cotton.

"What I found-- no, you'll never follow all that-- what I extrapolate from what I found is that our Agent Agent might not be as dead as we think. What do you think of that?" 

"I think..." you're crazy. I think you really shouldn't get a guy's hopes up. I think that's a horrible thing to say until you have proof. I think I really can't take this anymore. "I think that's ballsy, even for Fury. I'd need to hear a lot more to convince me."

"Good! Because I need _you_ , William Tell, to track down something in SHIELD HQ for me."

"Going for the classics are we, Nick Chopper? I take it whatever this is, it isn't linked to anything JARVIS can get to?"

"Yes, and that cannot stand. Here, I'm gonna send you a room number and set of codes. Got it?" Clint looked down at the text flashing on his StarkPhone, and swore.

"Yes," he said, feeling his gut sink even lower. "I've got it."

"Good."  
_____

Ten minutes and a few banged knees later, he slipped out of the drop ceiling, landed on the floor at the foot of a hospital bed, and blinked. Several times.  
"Hello, Agent Barton," Director Nick Fury said. And then: "No sevens. Go fish."  
"Sir," Clint told him, staring from him to the occupant of the bed and back. "I'm going to have to lodge a formal protest here."

**+1)**

Clint had attempted to slip away quietly after the battle, after the shwarma-- at least, as quietly as he could when it seemed like all his joints were seizing up and there was a chandelier embedded in his back. Natasha caught up with him very quickly. When he glanced over at her she shook her head, clearly preferring not to talk.

They walked next together until they could find a SHIELD transport that was headed back to the ravaged Helicarrier. Clint hadn't slept, but he did zone out along the way, coming back to himself when the shattered sides of the big carrier hove into view at last. It had taken them half the night to get back on board. 

He'd kind of broken it, and it seemed unfair to go back and remind everyone of that, but at the same time: Phil. Lots of his "I don't wanna" internal arguments ended that way. Why should it be different this time? Natasha knew what he was feeling of course-- she always did-- and he was grateful for her silence. All he wanted was to sleep. Well, no, all he wanted was to curl into a little tiny ball on Phil's couch or, better still, in Phil's arms.

He really didn’t want Natasha to turn to him when they stepped off the transport, take both his shoulders in her hands, and look at him like _that_. Like the way she had looked at him when he'd asked her if she knew what it was like to be unmade. Because that was when it occurred to him that he _hadn't heard from Phil yet what the hell_.

"Clint," she said, and he knew his face was crumpling. He knew his heart was crumpling, in fact, but there wasn't anything he could do about it.

"Agent Romanov," a voice said next to them, startlingly close, and he never knew who it was. "Director Fury would like to see Agent Barton, please. The moment he got back, he said. We're supposed to escort him." Natasha looked up, behind his head, from one side to another, and then back at him.

"I'll see you soon, Clint, I promise." She watched him go, bracketed by two silent figures in security uniforms.  
_____

Director Fury saw him coming, waved his guards off, and took Clint by the elbow. They set off down the corridor at a brisk pace, the guards trailing behind. Occasionally their way was blocked by fallen sections of panelling, live wires, large rusty splotches. Clint shut his eyes eventually, willing to stumble to keep from seeing more. 

"Coulon was always a stubborn asshole," Fury was saying, and Clint wished he could shut his ears, too. "Always went his own way. Nearly got Loki, though. I want you to keep that in mind. The play _nearly_ worked, and it did buy us the time to get you back. That would've been important to him. It got those idiots Stark and Rogers to stop fighting each other and focus, too. We owe him the world, when you look at it that way." 

They were in the bowels of the Helicarrier now, in the corridors off the sick-bay. Gurneys, some full, some shrouded, some empty, littered the hall. Clint stared straight ahead. Fury stopped in front of a door and spun to face him.

"Phil died, Clint. I was with him when they called it." 

Fury held his eyes, held open the door. It took Clint a long, long time to turn and face it. He nearly didn't, because seeing his husband's cold body was not... was not... it didn't... he turned. Took a step into the room. Felt the sobs begin to pile up in the back of his throat as he thought _oh, Phil_.

Behind him, Fury was going on about tests and quarantines and Loki and formalities and all for the best in the end, and Clint didn't give a flying fuck. 

**1)**

"Clint," Deputy Director Maria Hill said, as they were walking through the central courtyard inside SHIELD headquarters, a week later. It had been a hellish week, which he'd mostly spent either strapped to machines, having blood drawn, answering ever more absurd questions, or staring blankly into space on his bunk. He ought to have been grateful for the wind on his face, but he wasn't. He was curious; the only time Hill had ever called him Clint had been at his wedding.

He turned to her. 

"I need you to trust me on this, because I'm not going to help you get out of quarantine, and I'm not going to tell you how I know and damnit, if I didn't think he'd kill us all if no one told you, I wouldn't do it." She was so stiff he expected her to dress herself down at any moment. He glanced over at her, felt her hand in his, suddenly, felt something stiff press into his palm. He looked down at it. 

"Phil's alive," she said. He turned the wedding ring over in his hand.

"Oh." 

"Oh?"

Really, he wasn't sure what else to say.  
_____

He'd been concentrating on watching the shallow rise and fall of his husband's chest, rubbing his thumb against the worn metal wedding band he'd found in the envelope containing Phil's effects. The man looked horrible. Pale and bruised and barely alive-- and so much better than a guy just an hour out of emergency surgery should look. Fury's voice droned on above him.

"What do you mean, I can see him every night?" Clint sat up suddenly, "I'm going to be here with him. The whole damn time." Fury looked at him like he was speaking Basque, which for all the good it did he might as well have been.

"You, as I just explained, are going to be in quarantine, Barton. You will do him no good if you go all blue-shiny on us again unexpectedly. Not to mention what it would do to morale. Not to mention it's the best way for me to keep you out of the WSC's hands at present. And if I was just a hair less convinced your husband would eventually wake up and I'd have to be answering to him? Quarantine is where you'd be right now, none the wiser that he was fucking alive. So take what you're gonna get. One hour a night. I sign off on his medical procedures, but I keep you informed. If anyone-- _anyone_ \-- asks, he's dead. If they _tell_ you he isn't, you play dumb. Have you got it?"

"Why are we doing this again? Why don't you just tell Rogers and Stark right now, you know 'oops, heat of battle, medical miracle,' that kind of thing?"

"Because I'm the Director and I motherfucking said so, that's why. You put on your heartbroken face, Barton. Make it look good."

Huh. Heart and soul ripped out of him? Sure, he figured he could manage that. 

**2)**

"Barton," Agent Jasper Sitwell said, leaning forward to press his face to the glass in the quarantine bunk Clint had been assigned now that they'd transferred to headquarters, "Clint. C'mere." Clint moved a chair to sit in front of the glass, folded his hands, and waited. Sitwell looked around him, pressed himself so close to the glass that he was nearly smeared against it, and whispered:

"How close were you to Coulson?"

"What kind of a question is that?" Clint yelped, sitting back. Jasper Sitwell blinked behind his wire-rimmed glasses then beckoned him closer. Clint rolled his eyes and complied. It beat not-sleeping and staring at halogen lights. It beat rifling through the unabridged version of the _Count of Monte Cristo_ again. (He usually skipped to the action scenes, but just at the moment he had a hell of a lot time on his hands.)

"I mean, I know you were friends," Sitwell said, "and I know he, um, I know he cared about you a lot. More than he wanted to admit. I just... sometimes I thought you knew? Or not? Fuck, I hope you knew." Clint stared him down.

"That's classified, Sitwell," he said, in his best imitation Phil-voice. 

" _I'm_ classified, Barton," Sitwell replied. Clint manfully attempted to hold back a snigger, and made it a good fifteen seconds before bursting. Sitwell glared at him. "I mean I'm Level 7 now. Like Coulson, apparently."

"It's also need to know."

"I need to know, all right?" Sitwell grumped, then he stopped. Blinked. Looked up at Clint. "Oh."

"Yep, not much need to classify it otherwise," Clint said, and drew the chain, with his wedding band on it, out from under his t-shirt.

" _Oh._ " Sitwell sat back. "Okay then. Close-mouthed bastards, both of you. Wait-- then you know, right?"

"I know what?"

"You don't know. Fucking _hell_ , Fury didn't tell you? What the actual fuck? I knew he was cold, but that... that's arctic. What the hell have you been thinking all this time? I mean, it was bad enough for me, but you, with the, the, _shit_. What the hell is this? Doesn't he trust you? Is this a quarantine thing? Because that shit is jacked. Look at this, like you're in a zoo. Holy fuck, Phil is going to kill _everyone_."

"Hey, Jasper? Mind slowing down and filling me in?" Clint said, carefully noting the future tense of Phil.

_____

"So, I hear Level 7 got the good word today," Clint said when he and Fury had closed the door behind them. 

Over on the hospital bed, Phil lay, still, IVs attached in too many places, monitors giving off a steady little hum and click and the occasional calm peep. He looked so, so much better than he had a week ago, two weeks ago, three weeks ago when he was dead for a bit. The scar was healing at a rate that shocked Clint, and Clint had extensive practical knowledge on the topic. Phil’s color was coming back, and the need for a medical coma was past. The beard was... new. It was a new, weird look on him. Clint had grown one out of solidarity. Or lack of a razor, there in quarantine.

"They did," Fury said, evenly, as they both watched Phil. "And that's as far as that knowledge goes. Who let it slip?"

"What makes you think it was only one of them?" Clint asked. "Curious, though. You gonna tell Natasha?"

"No. I'm not telling you, either."

"How does that work? We're Level 7s."

"You're Level 7 _C_ s, Barton. _C_ as in 'I don't gotta tell you shit.'" Clint actually spent a minute trying to work that one out, before giving it up as a bad deal.

"You may want to spread that word around your high-level, super-smart secret agent corps, Director, because that is a distinction currently pretty much only being honored in the breach. What's the deal on that?"

"You're Avengers. Avengers don't get to know."

"I, ah, okay. One: you're still running with that? I'm beginning to think you have plans for Phil that certain Avengers would disapprove of. Two: not much of a team just at the moment. Three: I am not going to get between you and Natasha on that one."

"I can handle Agent Romanov." Fury snapped.

"Famous last words," rasped a voice from the bed. Clint whipped his head around, to find Phil staring at them both, though mostly at Clint. 

"Hello, loverboy," Clint found himself rasping back, and Phil's smile wandered loopily across his face. 

"Oh _hell_ no," Fury said behind him. "I am not staying for that shit. Phil, don't you ever die on me again, that wasn't in our deal. Barton-- never say that in my hearing again. I’ll be back soon." He stalked out. 

Clint wasn't really paying attention to how thick the Director's voice had gone; he was already halfway to his husband.

And no fucking way was he going to be staying only an hour.

**3)**

The folded paper was lying inside his bow case, waiting for him when he had finished emptying his last quiver into the target far downrange. Clint had only that day been allowed to spend significant time out of quarantine without at least two guards in close attendance. He'd headed straight for the range. 

A conscious and recovering husband had done wonders for his state of mind, though the starting point had been truly abysmal. He was finally getting some decent intel, as Phil had whispered Fury’s secrets in his ear while he lay curled up around the man's shoulders. Being looped-in was as comforting to Clint as skin-to-skin contact, even if it made for weird pillow talk. But he still only got a few precious Phil hours a day.

Meanwhile, there were guards stationed at the door wherever he went. 

He picked the paper up and unfolded it with thumb and forefinger, removing his arm guards with his other hand as he read. 

Phil could have told him exactly what circle of bureaucracy it had come from, its Linnean classification in the red tape family tree, its precedents and antecedents. The whole thing meant nothing to Clint, except that a name and status were highlighted in yellow. They weren't Phil's, of course; they were one of Phil's more frequent cover identities. That cover identity was, apparently, currently a guest of SHIELD medical and was causing some existential angst down in Benefits. Clint looked around, but he already knew he wouldn't find anyone. He glanced down at the approver initials, raised an eyebrow, then tucked the paper into his pocket as he finished packing his bow.

He'd ask Phil, when he saw him that night, why in the world Agent Melinda May, whom he remembered fondly from such fucked-up ops as Quito, Reykjavik, Jo'burg and Omaha, was currently down in Red Tape Land doing paperwork. He'd have to let her know he appreciated the gesture, though.

**4)**

Clint moved through the cafeteria line slowly, the better to revel in the novel absence of the guards that had dogged his step for so many days. Okay, so Director Fury was in line just behind him-- whatever. It was still a victory, and even the truly horrifying limpness of the baby corn in the caf’s stir-fry couldn’t dampen it. He knew Fury was picking up on his delight, and he hoped the man choked on it.

Fury had sought him out in his clear-walled cell that morning for a chat, which had started out “certain stubborn assholes we both know strongly suggested I read you in on a couple things.” Finding out where Natasha had been (everywhere) and what she had been doing (gleefully digging up dirt on several linchpin WSC councilmembers) had eased his mind. It wasn’t a job he was going to be able to help with, but Clint wasn’t looking for one at the moment. He had his own plans, for whenever he finally got to leave that damned plexiglass cube for good.

His mood was still wildly uneven. The good times were nearly okay. The bad times were starting to tilt further from despair and more towards claustrophobia the longer he went, and these little field trips were only of momentary use. Something had to give. Soon.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a group of field-suited agents glower at him, and his stomach plummeted. Quarantines worked both ways, after all, and the security wasn’t only there to watch _him_. Clint was still watching as the agents blanched in unison and suddenly became very busy with their trays. He turned fast enough to catch the lingering glare on Fury’s face.

“Agent Barton, I haven’t seen you around in a while!” That was Tim, the tall skinny guy who ran the dessert cart. Clint thought he was one of the pastry chefs, too, and figured it said something about someone’s priorities at SHIELD that they had an actual pastry chef. By “someone,” he meant “Director Fury,” since the man was currently staring down a triple-fudge cake and a cheesecake as if he expected them to duel to the death for his favor.

A slice of raspberry angel pie appeared under his nose, and Clint looked up swiftly, hoping his eyes weren’t watering. They still did that at the stupidest times, despite seeing Phil every night. Tim was leaning forward, conspiratorial.

“I remembered how you felt about this one,” he said. Clint nodded, feeling ambushed. That pie was the reason Tim had been on the need to know list for their wedding. Tim looked swiftly towards Fury, and back. “Thought you might like to know we’ve been getting a lot of requests for it lately.”

“… Oh?”

“From the secure medical wing.”

Clint took the slice of pie and set it reverently on his tray.

“Thank you,” he said to Tim, leaning on the words, and turned away before Fury could get a look at his face.

The Director joined him at the table, having ultimately found both desserts worthy. He raised an eyebrow when Clint pointed to his pie.

“Someone’s been ignoring his nutritionist again,” he told Fury. Fury just sighed.

“I suppose I can’t fault anyone who loves their pie that much, but I’ll remind him its creating a security breach. Thank you, Barton.”

**5, continued)**

"Sir," Clint told Fury, staring from him to the occupant of the bed and back. "I'm going to have to lodge a formal protest here."

Director Fury folded his hand, set it on the little trundle table, laid his fingers over it, and said:

"Go on, Agent."

"First of all, you are playing Go Fish with my husband in medical. That’s Our Thing-- and frankly, you don’t want to know what usually happens when we run out of fish in the pond. " 

Fury looked over at Phil, who looked thoughtful. He also looked ravishing, with that beard (it hadn't taken too long to get used to the beard, although Phil had emphatically denied Clint's Solidarity Whiskers) and those sparkly warm eyes and that edible nose and... yes, Clint was really fucking done with this.

"Secondly, it was bad enough when it was just SHIELD agents, it was even worse when it was Tim in the cafeteria, but I draw the line at Tony Stark."  
"He's finally worked it out, huh?" Fury drawled. Phil cleared his throat, then raised an eyebrow when the man looked over at him. Fury sighed and pulled a folded bill out of his wallet. Clint snorted.  
"Yeah, well, I'm here at his request, so you do the math. I don't care whether you tell him or not, I don't care whether you stonewall the Avengers into the next century, but I am done pretending to be shocked whenever someone tells me that Phil's still alive, and frankly, I'm done with quarantine and as far as I'm concerned, he's done with this whole hospital nonsense and we are going home."

"Can't go home, Barton. Your neighbors all think Phil's dead."

" _Goddamnit._ "

"Tahiti," Phil said, setting down his own cards.

"What?" Fury said.

"Hm," Clint said. "Yeah, that could work."

"Again, what?" 

"You're sending me to Tahiti to convalesce," Phil told him. "A nice bungalow down by the ocean, I think. Tahiti Iti would be the better choice; it's more secluded. You'll be sending Agent Barton with me, as security. You can give him a leave of absence. And before he goes, he can tell Stark he found nothing of interest. Stark will think you got to him, but it won't really matter."

"Coulson, have you seen our budget? How the hell am I supposed to afford sending you to Tahiti?"

"I've been a bit under the weather, Nick. Also, Tahiti's cheaper than a replacement set of Captain America trading cards, only slightly foxed around the edges." He looked so very serious that Clint couldn't help it. He laughed, already feeling warmer about the midsection.

"All right. Tahiti. But tell me, gentlemen, what I am supposed to tell Agent Romanov when she comes asking after Barton? Because I guarantee you she's not going to buy any leave of absence shit from me, and I guarantee you Stark is going to go to her next, if he hasn't already."

"Sir," Clint said, coming over to take his husband's hand. Phil grinned up at him and squeezed. "Nat told me Phil was alive before the second day of quarantine was out."  
"Let her mislead Stark for a bit," Phil added. "And then buy her a new bikini and give her a mission in Moorea. Now, got any eights?"

" _Motherfuck_ ," Fury said, handing them over. Clint refrained from pointing out that it had been his turn.

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> "Level 7C what", you say? At this point, I have no idea where I saw that, if it’s part of supplementary materials or fanon or if I hallucinated it. But it makes for a useful fanwank for the fic.


End file.
